


In Which Derek Masturbates

by Ecphasis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot, i suck at titles don't judge me, oh wow i wrote masturbation fic i feel accomplished, switch derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:01:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1253809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ecphasis/pseuds/Ecphasis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek "finds" Stiles's hoodie. Solo sexytimes ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Derek Masturbates

Derek wasn't sure how he'd gotten the hoodie in the first place. Okay, he had an /idea/, but he was promptly ignoring it in favor of pleading innocence . . . to himself. Hell, why not just come out with it - Derek Hale, a god-damn grown ass werewolf, had stolen Stiles Stilinski's red hoodie. Still-in-high-school Stiles. Completely-off-limits Stiles. The-most-irritating-thing-Derek-had-ever-met Stiles.

And still Derek was in possession of Stiles's red hoodie (/the/ red hoodie, the one that made Derek want to absolutely ravage the gangly teen - even more than usual). He could have given it back to Stiles. Or Scott. Or put it in Stiles's room while he was at school. He didn't do any of those things, though, nor did he /acknowledge/ the clothing's presence.

He kept telling himself that if it just sat on his bed and he never touched it then it was like it wasn't even there at all. (Except it totally was, and all Derek did was look at it or think about it or pretend like he /wasn't/ thinking about it.)

To the surprise of absolutely no one who knew him, Derek spent Valentine's Day alone in the burnt-out shell of his old house that wasn't quite as decrepit as one would have thought. Well, he wasn't really alone; he was a werewolf, after all, and scent was one of the most important parts of his life. 

In fact, if he pressed Stiles's hoodie to his face and closed his eyes, it was almost as if the less-and-less-gangly-limbed teen was there with him. Stiles always smelled like too much cologne, a musky scent that Derek would have actually enjoyed if Stiles would practice restraint with the application of it. Beneath that was the faintest hints of conditioner; it was fruity and feminine, though the conflicting odors didn't surprise Derek much.

Unlike Stiles himself, who seemed to be full of surprises. Like when he would say something brilliant though everyone thought he wasn't listening . . . or when he'd appear in Derek's dreams like Derek was some pathetic, horny teenager again. Not that he ever thought about those. Extensively.

Really, though, it wasn't Derek's fault that his mind was unfairly vivid and his body seemed convinced he /was/ a teenager again (at least, according to all the morning wood he'd sported since meeting a certain mole-specked human).

Derek huffed loudly, flopping down onto his mattress . . . right next to the hoodie. He glared at it for a long, brooding moment, as if he could just give it a sour enough look and it would disappear. He eventually gave up, snatching up the hoodie in fingers that threatened to twist into claws, some possessive instinct in him reacting to the scent, and pulling it to him as he turned to lay on his back.

God, how Derek wished he'd ripped out Stiles's throat (with his /teeth/) when he'd had the chance, before he'd started thinking about biting bruises and hickeys into that same long expanse of pale skin that taunted him. With his eyes closed and the hoodie pressed to his face, he could almost believe he was doing just that. He felt his dick stir as he tried to focus on the details of this fantasy, construct it just the way he liked. 

Stiles was laying on his back, sprawled on Derek's floor as Derek took him apart, teeth at his neck as he fucked the slight teen. He'd inhale his scent between every snap of his hips; his tongue would lap at the sweat pooling in the dip of Stiles' collarbone as he set a slow, torturous pace because he knew he couldn't let himself go, couldn't pound Stiles's ass in fear of hurting the human. 

Oh, but how Stiles would /beg/ for it. "Fuck me harder," he'd plead, his sometimes-annoying voice pitched unusually high with arousal. "Please, Derek, take me hard and fast. Make me feel like I'm gonna split in half. Want to feel your cock for days. Ah, come on, I thought you were the Alpha, Derek. Is this really all you've got?"

He'd quake and tremble and gasp out, desperate, but Derek would deny him. He wouldn't give Stiles what he wanted; he'd give him what he needed, a thorough screw that was slow, almost methodical, with thrusts that always hit /that spot/. Derek would mark his neck with hickeys and bite marks (careful to use his human teeth, not his fangs, because he'd never forgive himself for turning Stiles) and breathe words of love into Stiles's jaw, words spoken in a quiet, guttural growl because he didn't have the courage to say them any other way but in these moments when his fingers closed around Stiles's cock and stroked him to completion just before spilling his own orgasm deep in his human.

Derek's hips jerked up off the bed at the thought, hand stuttering before resuming its previous rhythm. He had long since started jerking himself off, thick fingers wrapped too-tight around his aching cock; at first, he had tried to stroke himself slowly, to draw the pleasure of each flick of his wrist out as long as possible, but he'd long since forgotten that plan in the haze of arousal that the scent of Stiles seemed to heighten.

It made his fantasy that much more /real/, made it easier to lose himself in the idea of Stiles fucking him - it had been abrupt, rather unprecedented, but now he didn't want to let it go. Stiles was all limbs, gangly and weak especially compared to Derek, but there wasn't a doubt that Stiles would have no problem fucking him senseless.

Derek would be on his back, muscular legs wrapped around Stiles's slight waist and hands clutching at the headboard of his bed to stop himself from being jostled up to hit his head off of it. He'd probably crack the wood - maybe even splinter it, once Stiles found his prostate. Stiles would dig his nails into Derek's hips as he thrust with reckless abandon, using a strength he didn't know he possessed to make Derek /scream/ for him.

And Derek would scream. In his fantasy, there was no shame in wailing the teen's name, feeling the wolf skirting the edge of his conscious but being drowned out in the waves of pleasure. Stiles would bend over Derek's body, kiss him and probably knock their teeth together at first before they found their rhythm. He wouldn't even need a hand on his cock; Derek would come like that, yanking at the headboard with Stiles fucking him hard and deep.

That sent him over the edge. Derek came with a gasp, coming all over his shirt that he hadn't bothered to take off before slipping onto the bed, face still buried in the hoodie. He laid there as he came down, reluctantly setting the hoodie aside to get up and clean himself up.

Only as he settled in to go to sleep, hugging the hoodie to his face again, did Derek realize that he'd just gotten off to the thought of a teenage boy. /Stiles/, no less. God, if the pack found out, he'd never hear the end of it.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a V-day present for Merel (ilybby) and it's belated but at least I finished it. Huzzah. So, yeah, constructive criticism and feedback is great!
> 
> P.S. Sorry for the awful title.
> 
> P.S.S. Apologies for any errors.


End file.
